


that's all that I can do (but I'll remember)

by djemso



Series: with the dawn a new day is born [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Coming Home Again, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Past Brainwashing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, Protective Bucky Barnes, reclaiming self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djemso/pseuds/djemso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You stand immobile in front of the memorial of James  Buchanan Barnes and gape. It was confirmation that the images that plagued you were real and you were not always what you are now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's all that I can do (but I'll remember)

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [this](http://bckysoldier.tumblr.com/post/93529101515) stunning gif set on tumblr for this. I don't know where it came from, but since it all poured out in about 2 hours, I've decided to put it up.
> 
> The title is from Sophie Zelmani's "I'll Remember You".

In your mind, there is chaos where there was once order.

You are not able to write it off as a malfunction anymore. Images, thoughts and senses are alive in your mind, tumbling across each other and transcending the lines between thought, dream and memory. Your mind is loud now. Your mind is without category. Your mind has been loud and chaotic since your last mission. Your mind has not shut up since Captain America claimed to know you and pulled something loose inside your head. These messy glitches are growing louder than the commands inside of you that helped you to survive as an asset. HYDRA gave you the means to change the world and all that was asked in return was a single, damaged, _worthless_ body to save the failing world. It had seemed like such a small price to pay. You had never been anything, so there was no great sacrifice and you did not fight them much, not anymore. You could see the logic in one life sacrificed so many others may live peacefully.

You stand immobile in front of the memorial of James Buchanan Barnes and gape. It was confirmation that the images that plagued you were real and you were not always what you are now.

You were something before. You had a _before_. It was not your imagination. It was not a lie. You are staring at etched glass proof that were something before. You were someone that people had dedicated time to memorialise. The target, Captain America, had been your commanding officer. You had always been a soldier, but once, you had other things too. You did not always work alone, with nothing more than a support team. You had friends and comrades. You were a friend in return. You are not only an asset to be used as needed.

You’re looking at Captain America and something is funny, because you are laughing on the projection. Your mind fills the strip into colour and adds aches in your bones that are different to the aches you have now. There is an overwhelming instinct that you belong to him. This is not a surprise. You have belonged to many people. It does not explain his behaviour entirely, but it does make it easier to digest. The Captain was trying to reclaim what had been his. 

The chaos was corroborated by inscriptions, photographs, drawings and strips where your face moved in unfamiliar ways. Your chaos is you. It is memories, thoughts, emotions and dreams without context. That mess was you. There is no glitch, no malfunctions and nothing to be fixed.

You breathe, in and out. It doesn't help.

“Shit.”

 

* * *

 

Every search corroborates what was at the museum.

You were James Buchanan Barnes. You were a Howling Commando. You survived being a prisoner of war. You were best friends with Steve Rogers, the small statured man with bloody lips who filled so many memories.He became Captain America. You became Codename: Winter Soldier. You both became weapons. It was inevitable that one day, someone would aim you at each other.

It was not inevitable that Steve Rogers would force Captain America to lay down his life for you rather than kill you, but if the library books were accurate, maybe it was.

 

* * *

 

 You write your name. James Buchanan Barnes. You write it over and over. It comes out in cyrillic. You repeat the process till the shaky letters spell out your name.

This is your name.

You write ‘Bucky’ instead.

It’s a start.

 

* * *

 

 You write down what you know about yourself. You burn the pages. You leave no trace but ash.

You stay out of sight. You leave D.C. You visit the graves of Gabe Jones and Jim Morita. It triggers no sense in your memory. There is no revelation. It is not like the museum. There are only stones, with names and withered flowers. There is nothing left of the men you knew here but a few words.

You wonder how many graves were needed for the people you killed. You think you should feel badly, guilty, but you were waging war on chaos and attempting to bring peace through sacrifice and order. You feel nothing for those you killed on the battlefield. The battlefield simply got larger with time.

The war did not end.

 

* * *

 

 You leave for New York. You are not supposed to go to New York. You were supposed to kill Captain America and Black Widow. Both are still alive. Both are still in D.C. You cannot return there.

You walk the streets of Brooklyn. There is a school with a plaque. It proudly proclaims that Steven Rogers a.k.a Captain America and James “Bucky” Barnes attended the school. You allow yourself to walk aimlessly. You stop in front of a tenement and reach for a key you don’t have. There are too many cars. You keep checking back alleys. Something is missing. Everything looks wrong. You are overwhelmed. You are violently sick in an alley.

You pocket another wallet and stay at a motel. When you sleep, you wake fearful with images of lightning convulsing above you but you have a clear memory. You can identify it and categorise it.

You are sitting against Steve somewhere high up. The rifle is a beaut. The vantage point is excellent. You are cold inside, but Steve is warm now. You warm up against his back. He looks back at you, concern etched over a smile. You are not afraid here.

You think there’s something you should tell him. You try, but you remember needles and rank and number and for the first time, your name is definitely yours. You repeated it over and over. You repeated it till it lost meaning. You don’t tell Steve anything. You never want him to know. You’ll have to go back to the table if they ever know. You don’t know much, but you know you didn't want to go back to the table with the doctors and needles.

You have nightmares of peeling your face off.

 

* * *

 

 You use the internet at the library to track down the surviving Barnes sibling.

She has social media accounts where she posts pictures of grandchildren and then there is one of you. You are not used to seeing images of yourself without Steve. You look young. You don’t know if you remember being that young.

When you are crouched outside her home, you can identify the memory of her: Becky Barnes, age eight, with scuffed up knees and black nails. In your mind, she is small and smiling. It’s a trick. She’s done something she shouldn’t have. You don’t mind. She was spirited. Judging by the irritation in her tone when she talks on the phone, she still is.

You don’t expect her to come outside. You don’t expect her to threaten to hit you with a pan that looks like she may have dented someone with it before. Your mind supplies that she was always a bit violent for a girl, even if she bounced when she tried to throw a punch. In your mind, she is a baby, a toddler, a young girl but none of the memories are in order. You do not remember her as more than a child.

“Sit down and eat,” She orders. You are obedient. You have always followed orders. You don’t ask any questions. You get the feeling, somewhere in your gut, that you have asked questions before and it hasn't gone well for you. You realise you are basing this on a feeling. She sits across from you. Her hair is wisps, pushed back and more grey than brown. She looks stern in a way that reminds you more of your father than anything else. You had always feared disappointing him. It’s irrational to fear that anymore. You still feel it.

But you remember him.

When the plate is clean, she looks you over and there it is, the scared little girl you remember after nightmares. The one you hugged because everyone knows a hug keeps the monsters away, especially a hug from your older brother. “You look good for your age,” She says. Her voice is breaking. It’s painful. It is more painful than anything else you have felt in a long time.

You stare back at her. She puts her hand on yours, and she squeezes it. She feels cold and her hands are too rough.

“I don’t know who I am,” you say. It’s not a lie. You are realising that you know who you were. You do not believe you are the same person now. You are chasing your past in the hopes it will explain your present.

She looks at you square, “You know who I am?”

You give a sharp nod.

“You're my idiot brother,” She says, and that makes sense. You’re sure a lot of people have called you an idiot. “You taught me how to throw a punch. You took care of me. You tried to protect me, even if I didn't let you. Last time I spoke to you, you were in London and Agent Carter had let you call home before the reels would get there.”

The memory flooded in, of being in a small corner of a crowded room and listening to your mother cry on the phone. Trying to soothe her. Trying to explain how Steve saved your life without telling her anything you couldn't. You weren't going home. You had to stay. You had to make sure Steve got home safe. You remember Steve none-too-subtly looking up at that. You realise that his super soldiered ears can hear you. You toss one of the cups at his head and everyone jumps a little when it smashes behind him.

“I liked that cup, Barnes,” Carter had commented. She looked amused. You like her despite yourself and you find that you can remember tasting wine on her lips without any context. You could ask her now, but from what you've found of her, her memory isn't so good these days either.

“I’m sure Captain America will take you to go get another one if he can tear himself away from eavesdropping on me,” You say at the time, keeping one ear listening to your sister tell you about her scholarship as if you weren't almost dead only days ago. Your voice is different. It has something to it. It’s not a monotone.It has a twang of something you’d forgotten. It feels like home.

Carter lead Steve away as you promised your Ma and your sisters that you’d be home soon as you could. As soon as it was over, you’d come home and tell them everything.

You meet your sisters eyes for the first time in three quarters of a century. “Didn't mean to take so long to get back,” You say.

She must understand, because she smiles at you. It’s bitter, but warm. It’s more than you could have hoped for. “Better late than never.”

 

* * *

 

Becca confesses that Steve had called her almost two weeks before and given her the gist. That was why, as she put it, she didn't call the nuthouse for herself the moment she caught sight of you outside or keel over dead.

“How is he?” You don’t mean to ask. The desire to protect him burns deep in your veins. You think that it always has. It wipes away any question of putting him in danger by going to him. You are a dangerous weapon and you are pointed at him.

“Shitty,” She replies. “He was out of the hospital, but you can bet he wasn't resting like he was supposed to. Our Ma always said the only reason he ever lived long as he did was cause you weren't afraid to put your foot down about him needing taken care of. Only damn person that stubborn little ass ever listened to was you.”

You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that.

 

* * *

 

 Reconnaissance confirms Becca’s statement: Steve Rogers is terrible at taking care of himself.

You knew that, but you still don’t trust yourself for that to be enough anymore. You knew that because he stopped fighting. You knew that because he nose dived a plane. You knew that because he once walked into a hail of bullets and you held onto him while Gabe dug each bullet out in turn. You knew that because Howard Stark had given him a target for a shield and he’d still managed to get hit more times than enough.

You find that he has not moved out of his previous residence. You replace the locks on his doors to something more sturdy when he’s out. You reinforce the windows. You do daily sweeps and turn up too much surveillance. You put bullets in three HYDRA agents who try to ambush him from the roof. You realise he’s not eating regular meals, so you begin to cook for him. You label the containers and put them back in fridge. You write a note on the fridge door informing him of this. You are relieved when he appears to reheat them and eat them, but also wonder if someone could poison him that way.

Steve runs around with no more protection than Sam Wilson, who without his technology, would be easy to dispatch. Steve rides his motorcycle at unacceptable speeds. Steve does not sleep regularly. Steve spends so much time at Peggy Carter’s rest home that you’d think he was a resident. Steve is goddamn nightmare without someone prodding him.

Then he disappears and you panic. You are afraid. You do not want to lose him. You can’t breathe.

 

* * *

 

 Steve reappears eight days later. He fought a battle. It was on the television.

He is bloody, dirty and has not moved from the bed in almost twelve hours. You are afraid. You do not want to lose him. You have realised that he is the only constant you have. You know he is yours. You want something for the first time in forever. You want him to be safe and there is blood on his carpets.

You have no choice but to break in. You find him still asleep on his bed. There’s blood on the pillows. You are shaking him awake, calling his name over and over.

He wakes with bleary eyes before giving you a sleepy smile, “Bucky.”

“You're not smiling your way out of this,” You say, pulling at his arm. You sound irritable. You never sound like anything. You notice that he winces, but does not take his eyes off of you. “You have a concussion. You haven’t eaten in at least twelve hours. This leg needs splinting, why haven’t you done it?” It’s the most you’ve said in months, but you don’t notice. Steve is still staring at you. “These cuts are deep. Did you wash them out? Disinfect them?”

You still don’t receive an answer. You realise he’s not going to make a move. He’s just going to stare at you. You respond by beginning to remove his uniform and using a wet cloth to clean over his wounds.

“Bucky,” He says again, still sounding dazed as you stop and stare at the scars from bullets you drove into him. You look up and he puts a hand on eight days growth on your chin. He's trembling slightly. You both sit there, before his nostrils flare in a tell tale way. He might cry. Christ, you’re going to make him cry. That’s almost worse than shooting him. “You’re here.”

Of course you’re here. Who does he think has been making the place secure, making his meals and executing HYDRA agents? He must be impressively concussed.

“Yeah,” you say, as he puts his fingers gingerly over your face and reminds you that the muzzle is long gone. “Where else would I be?”

 

* * *

 

You push Steve into the shower, telling him to hurry up. You find the medicine cabinet stocked, and lay out what you believe you’ll need to help him. You were not there to protect him this time. Next time, you will do better.

When he gets out of the shower, he wraps his arms around you and you can barely feel the tears till they’re trickling down your neck. You haven’t slept more than two hours at a time in months, so holding him up and steady is more difficult than it sounds. You know you look like shit. He’s naked, and you are fully clothed and you definitely need to bathe, but he’s holding onto you like his next breath depends on it.

His lips feel the same, chapped and desperate but warm. You press against them lightly, tentatively but it takes only seconds for it to turn into something half-mad and starved for affection.

“I should've cleaned my teeth,” You say, when you finally have to stop to gasp for air. “It’s been a couple of days.”

He makes a face, but nods, “I wasn't going to say anything, but -- yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Your first words to Sam Wilson are to tell him to get in properly and shut the door behind him.

You’re holding the kitchen knife. You’ve been making soup. He looks ready to fight, to argue and his shoulders are going back in anticipation. You do not turn your back to him. If he wants to fight, you’ll fight.

The tension seems to dissolve into confusion when he spots Steve on the couch. This was where you left him after making sure every cut was washed out, disinfected and covered where it was needed. You made sure to splint the leg, woke him every couple of hours and had made sure he ate two meals. His hair was still sticking up in awkward angles from drying it with the towel. He had covered him with a blanket and given him a blank pad to draw on. Unless he had to take a piss, he wasn't moving from that spot. You made sure he knew this. He didn't seem to fight it, which was worrying him a little. They might need a doctor.

Steve seemed to have forgotten this when he rose to greet Wilson. It was a relief to tell him to sit himself back down and eat his goddamn soup.

“First thing you gotta know about him?” You indicate Steve to Sam with the knife, “When it comes to his health, he lies. A lot.”

“Uh,” Wilson said, eloquently.

“Buck,” Steve started. “Don’t Buck at me,” You say, indicating the soup bowl in front of him. Steve took a mouthful and you putter back to the kitchen. “You have the self preservation of a jam jar. He tell you he was fine?” You look back at Wilson but don’t give him time to respond. You know Steve will have said that he was fine. That was what Steve did. “Of course he did. You have to check.” When Steve opens his mouth to protest, you fix him with a glare. “You went to sleep with a concussion, open wounds and a fucked up leg. You’ve been surviving on takeaway food. You’re running on empty. You’re going to sit there and eat your soup.”

You go back into the kitchen to check on the bread that Mrs Rogers had taught you to make. It’s ready, and you put a few slices on the plate for Steve in case he feels sick.

“Your life, man,” You hear Wilson say, sounding remarkably amused for someone ready to fight not ten minutes before.

You pour more soup and slice more bread, and head back to the furniture. You hand one of the soup bowls to Wilson. Your mother raised you right and you always take care of your house guests, even if you’re an ex-assassin breaking bread with people you tried to kill less than three months ago in an apartment that isn't yours.

The stunned “Thank you,” Wilson said as he took it resulted in Steve sniggering. Wilson promptly told him to shut the hell up and Steve fell into full blown laughter.

You’re going to have to redo his stitches. It’s worth it to see that smile again in person.

 

* * *

 

 You end up on Steve’s couch, after arguing and glaring and threatening to leave if he doesn't go to bed and rest. You win the argument by saying you need to take a bath and sleep. You promise to still be here in the morning. You promise to talk in the morning if he’ll get off the couch and go to bed.

The pillows still smell like him and when you lie down, you sleep till morning.


End file.
